I have returned from Detroit with many rolls of film to be developed and lots to talk about. Though I doubt that I'll be able to talk of it all in this post, I'll hopefully talk about it over the course of the next few.

The drive down to Detroit is unbelievably easy, but the sheer number of trucks is scary, as is their sometime utter disregard for the smaller vehicles on the road. Once you've passed the suburban sprawl of Toronto, the highway becomes quite a bit more attractive, with the rolling farmland of the Halton Hills and then the verdant, wealthy farms in the London area. The last hour before Windsor is pretty boring, flat, dull, and, of course, full of tractor-trailers. The border going into Michigan was easy as pie, with not too bad a wait, but the trip back was a pain in the neck once we'd crossed over. My advice is to use the bridge as it takes you straight out to the 401, whereas the tunnel routes you through Windsor and the traffic is ridiculous.

Detroit is shocking. I thought I was prepared having spent many hours looking at the photographs of ruined buildings, but from the start, as you come through the downtown, it's unreal how empty it is. Probably 60-70% of the shops at the base of the skyscrapers are closed and boarded up, there is no one out walking (because there's nothing open), and there is a general sense of despair in the streets. The drive up Woodward (the main drag) to the place we were staying at was hardly an improvement, with boarded up buildings and broken windows interspersed among still functioning stores and a few restaurants. Life returns to the city when you enter the Cultural centre of the city, where all the museums and Wayne State University are located. This is where we stayed at The Inn on Ferry Street.

The Inn is, in fact, a large bed and breakfast, and is set up in four grand houses that have been designated as historical buildings. There are also two carriage houses that are used for business, etc. The houses, as we learned from one of the lovely staff, Jonique, had been abandoned for at least a decade and were falling into terrible disrepair (as is generally the case in this once stunning city) when they were bought by two women with the support of the Detroit Institute of Arts. At the not insignificant amount of 7.5 million dollars, the houses were restored to as close to their original condition as possible, with additional upgrades like sprinkler systems, etc. Most of the trim and interior design is original, including marvelous stained and cut glass windows and the seven-foot-long cast iron bath tub (in our room !!). Breakfast was served from 8 until 10am and included a waffle maker for fun and deliciousness as well of tons of fresh fruit and really scrumptious coffee.

Minutes from the Inn were the major museums of Detroit, including the Institute of Arts, which was the whole purpose of our pilgrimmage, the New Science Centre, the Museum of African-American History, the Detroit Historical Museum, the beautiful Public Library, and of course, the University campus. There is much parkland around these institutions and public sculpture, with beautifully planted gardens and lovely mature trees. The DIA was our major stop as it was hosting the traveling exhibition, Magnificenza! The Medici, Michelangelo, and the Art of Late Rennaissance Florence. This was no typical traveling show, let me tell you; it was enormous, taking Mom and myself about two-and-a-half hours to go through. It took up a floor of an entire wing and had sixteen gallery rooms devoted to it, each with well displayed art and text. The spacing allowed for maximum viewing, even with the crowds that sometimes amassed. Highlights were some of the extraordinary sculpture by Michelangelo and Cellini (pronounced Chel-EEN-ee), as well as the incredible portrait and narrative works by painter Bronzino. Other lovely surprises in the exhibition were the ceramic works created under the Medici name. This wasn't an exhibit about Michelangelo, as apparently some people thought (who obviously didn't read the show's title), rather, it was a show about how he and the Medici family left their imprint on Florentine art for more than a century. It was incredible.

The DIA is what any world class museum should be. It is well laid out, peopled with knowledgeable and friendly staff, has a fantastic little restaurant (none of this Druxy's bollocks that the ROM has) with a salad bar, hot entrees, and exquisite desserts. I didn't like the museum as much as I do the one in Philadelphia (which is a place of magic), but the collection is vast and stunning. After spending the better part of the day there, we walked back to the Inn through the side streets and returned to our room. Mom lay down for a nap and I went out to explore the neighbourhood.

I think I'll leave off here for now as I have been typing for about an hour now and I have work to do. Perhaps I'll write a little more later, but if I do not write again until Sunday, forgive me, it's Rick's sister's wedding this weekend and I'll be away in the Hamilton area.

In another fit of procrastination, I have just lost one and a half unrecoverable hours reading the exhilerating and heart-thumpingly delicious articles at Infiltration.org. This site appeals to me on many levels. It speaks to that year of my life when I wasn't afraid to go places where we aren't supposed to go. That year, my final year of highschool (OAC/Grade 13, now abolished in Ontario), found me trying many new things and letting go of inhibitions. No, I wasn't dropping acid or having orgiastic adventures in the city's parks. That year, though I didn't know at the time that what I was doing had a name, I was an infiltrator. Infiltrators are the people that go places they're not supposed to go, like subway tunnels, abandoned buildings, drains, etc. For me, following the boy I was infatuated with (which is a sort of infatuation that is rather hard to describe) into strange and illegal places was a beautiful adventure and also something of a rush. Mostly we'd just go places and he'd tell me of his adventures breaking in and exploring, but sometimes he worked up my courage and I followed him. I would have followed him to Hell if he'd suggested it. I think, in retrospect, maybe my mother sort of felt that indeed he was leading me there. I never lied to her. "I'm going out with Kelk," would turn into, "Oh, we went to a construction site..." upon my return. God bless my mother for being so cool. She just let me. It was that kind of a year, and my outings with Kelk were more my salvation than endangering.

"We're looking for Dave," he'd say as we left the eight or ten foot fence behind us, entering into whatever site struck our fancy (usually this was the future site of the Metro Convention Centre). Dave could be our friend, a dog... whatever. It took us places and it worked. Another good excuse I learned when caught in a location with another boy, who seemed to attract the attention of the law, was that we needed a place to see each other since our parents forbade it. You should only know how hardened police officers melt when a cleancut white girl says that, fighting back tears. Okay, that particular instance is both a moment of pride and of embarrasment. I digress, however; I shall return to Kelk. The construction site was a place of utter bliss. It's not easy to explain, but you cannot imagine the freedom you feel, standing many, many feet above a gaping foundation, up on a plywood platform, in the middle of a spring night when the lightest of rain falls, turning the air to a haunting mist. This feeling is only broken when you step on a two inch nail and it goes right through the sole of your boot. The skin wasn't broken, and though puddles caused my sock to get wet thereafter, it was mostly humourous. And it was a valuable reminder that what we were doing was dangerous.

The effect Kelk had on the people around him was, and probably still is, tremendous. While everyone else was going off to get drunk, high, or laid after our graduation formal, he took us to Exhibition Stadium at the CNE grounds - a wonderful landmark that has ridden off into history. Never before had I agreed to go up the catwalk, though we'd been there many times. The six foot ladder up onto the stage made me queasy and yet, that night, in heels and a short velvet cocktail dress, I climbed up to the catwalk and danced thirty feet above the stage. This was a stage where many of the world's best and most infamous acts had played; their grafitti covered the walls. And up on that catwalk, dressed to the nines with five my friends, we were a part of history. It must have been a strange sight, eight or so graduating teenagers, in formal wear, running about in the stands and around the stage. It was way better than getting drunk, high, or laid, frankly - and certainly not a cliche.

There were some adventures with the much younger Scarlette, my beloved Subaru wagon - stories that make my mother want to revoke my driving privaledge to this day. I never told her about those misadventures at the time, I admit. I wasn't completely stupid. There were the adventures up in the Sesna ("No, you will NOT practice dives and stalls !"). I look back at the things Kelk and I did, our Infiltrations, and I shake my head. Mostly I have trouble believing that I did these things. Me. Most of my law-breaking is summed up by speeding and jay-walking. Once in a while, though, I look at those construction site gates, those single floodlights that don't really illuminate anything, those fenced off sites, with momentary longing, a little piece of me remembering that I enjoyed those adventures. Kelk gave me security while we risked our necks, but it's the former that I remember best. He saved me from myself, from grief, from despair when few others could, or would, and he gave me the courage to go places I had only ever considered loosely in the fringes of my imagination.

This wasn't supposed to become an essay on Kelk. I was talking about Infiltration, which was supposed to lead neatly into my next subject, Detroit. It didn't, but let's not allow that to stop us.

Detroit, an Infiltrator's dream. It is a city built on faded dreams and crumbling into oblivion. While there are wonderful people bent on recovering and saving the old historic and awesome buildings of Detroit, still much of its downtown is slowly dying the sad death of abandonment. Inspired by this incredible site, my friend Megan and I had long ago decided to take a road trip to view and photograph the awesomeness of that city's former splendour, but time, money, inclination kept us from going. Tomorrow, though not with Megan, I will be going to this city that sits mythic in the history of the American Dream. Mom and I are going to Detroit, baby ! Okay, we won't be prowling around with a tripod into the seedy strips, among the crumbling warehouses and burnt-out mansions, but I intend to see the decay and take photos. At some point between The Institute of Arts and the Science Centre, I'll do this. I'm excited. It's not really Infiltration if you stay on the roads and sidewalks, but a little of me will be climbing up sagging stairs and opening broken doors, even if only in my mind.

There is a serious downside to working from home. Don't get me wrong, being able to work in your pjs is great, and being able to wander into another room to watch television is also pretty sweet, but stepping into your room and staring at your computer takes on a whole new meaning. No longer is it a vehicle of mindless time wasting and internet surfing, or of creative writing, or other fun things; when you work from home, your computer becomes a ball and chain. Hello, it says every time you look at it, there is work you should be doing. At least when you go to an office, you can leave that office. When your home is your office, especially your bedroom, it kind of sucks.

When did Blur become retro? I hate that music I still consider recent has made the ten-year mark and can now officially be played on retro night. Oh well, just another symptom of that irritating time thing. That same thing that says I should be on my way to BEING SOMEONE at this time in my life. That same thing that tells people they're too old to do stuff, whatever that means. FUCK YOU, THING, and that pocket watch you rode in on.

No particular kitty stories tonight. Things have been relatively quiet, with a brief exception last night, when a fight caused me to wake up, sit bolt upright, thrust out my hand, and holler, "Company car !" ...

Okay, I typed too soon. Tobe was just being bad, sneaking up on Willi while the latter was nesting on my bed. At least I can say one thing for Tobe, all this exercise is causing her to lose weight, and just when she's started answering to Pork Chop.

And now, because working at home also means 'procrastinating', here are some results from some web quizzes that I took. Wot wot.




Jolly good, wot! Anyone for tennis? That'll be ten ponies, guv. You're the epitome of everything that is english. Yey :) Hoist that Union Jack!

How British are you?

this quiz was made by alanna

From a question in the kitten quiz: "A normal day for you consists of.... Eating food, eating plastic, eating hair, caughing it back up, eating lint, eating my owners hair... " I've known a few cats, nevermind kittens, like that... Willi? Pepper? Newman (bless his little soul)?

I am a giant mutant kitten. Not strange at all.


Which cute or possibly strange kitten are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Anyone else notice that the corner chair in that kitten picture is turned the wrong way for decent sitting? AND not in a proper corner? No, octagonal rooms don't count. Hmm.

The Chubby kitten is the cutest, though. You can view it's adorableness at Ben's weblog (friend in Philly).

Also, apparently emode.com believes that my popstar style would be "Loud 'n Proud". Well, I guess they got that dead on. Okay. Now it's time for bed. And, for the record, Pork Chop just jumped on Willi while she was having a poop, and I had to shut her in Stew's room. Now I'm bleeding and the neighbours downstairs think I torture animals.